


Culture Shock

by stephanieh



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Culture Shock, Drunk Dwarves, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Fluff, Homesickness, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 23:30:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10203302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanieh/pseuds/stephanieh
Summary: Bilbo is homesick, but his friends help him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please take note that if you're struggling with serious anxiety problems, this fic contains a graphic description of a panic attack. Please also note that if you persist, the ending is very fluffy and rewarding. It's like life in that way.

Bilbo pushed himself up on the tippy toes of his feet, trying to find an angle where he could view his whole outfit at once in the too-tall mirror. His hair was neat and shining from the recent bath, his vest was pressed and the buttons shined, his feet were neatly brushed. It was as good as he was going to get so far from home. With so few provisions being distributed among the mountain’s residents, he was lucky to manage even these small touches.

 

Resigning himself to his meager fineries, Bilbo padded out from the rooms he’d been given and into the torchlit hallway.

 

He’d agreed to let Bofur walk him to the party, despite the dwarf’s jabs about Bilbo getting lost if he were allowed to wander the halls of Erebor alone. Bilbo was perfectly capable of finding his own way, thank you very much. Only now, as he scrambled up a flight of too-big steps overlooking a gaping black chasm below, he had to admit he didn’t fancy the idea of being left alone in this place. The blackness at the end of each hall, the glittering gold speckling every surface, the wide, sailing architecture… it was all still so new and fantastic to Bilbo. In a way it was beautiful, but it was also disturbing. Every time he looked for a sunny window and found only cold stone, it felt as though the ground has disappeared beneath him.

 

It was lucky that Thorin had decided this party. Something familiar would do Bilbo some good. Only second to a garden, parties were as familiar to a hobbit as the embrace of their mother’s arms. Colorful tents and fairy lights strung up under, the sound of laughter as a pair of fiddles played faster and faster, until dancers tumbled from their turns like spinning tops…. Bilbo smiled to himself as he knocked on Bofur’s door. Yes, a party will do him good.

 

“Aye, ya ready, lad?” Bofur smiled, poking his head out the door. “Come and pop a squat for just a moment, Bombur’s not done fussing with his beard.” He rolled his eyes indulgently. Bombur’s indignant squak could be heard from another room.

 

Bilbo laughed as he took a seat in the nearest chair.“No problem, we can arrive to our own party at any time we like, as I see it.”

 

“Got that right,” Bofur agreed merrily as Bombur emerged from his room. “Ah, are we ready to go then? Sure you haven’t missed a hair there?”

 

“Ha, ha,” Bomber replied drily, but he checked his beard in the entryway mirror as he was rushed past by Bofur. And the three set off towards the banquet hall in companionable silence.

 

Just as they were coming up the last few steps to the Hall, Bilbo caught his foot and would’ve landed straight on his face had it not been for a swift rescue from Bofur.

 

Bilbo laughed as the dwarf pulled him upright by his arm. “Ah, thank you my friend. These steps aren’t doing much to improve my apparent coordination. I look forward to redeeming myself on the dance floor tonight. Tell me, do dwarves know the circle hop?”

 

This question was met with only blank stares.

 

“Never been to a dwarf party, I see,” Bofur smiled, elbowing him in the side hard enough that Bilbo had to stop himself from yelping. “You’re in for quite the night, Mister Baggins.”

 

“What do you…”

 

But just then they arrived at the gaping Hall doors, Bilbo found his question was no longer necessary.

 

There were no colorful tents, no fairy lights, no laughter, and absolutely no dancing. There was, however, an abundance of angry shouting, the suffocating stench of split ale, and at least two fights in progress. Bilbo flinched as one fight abruptly ended, the victor dumping his pint of ale over the loser’s bleeding, swollen face where he wallowed on the floor. The spectators gave a raucous cheer.

 

“Have a nice night!” Bofur shouted over the noise as he disappeared into the crowd, dragged along by Bomber towards the nearest table holding a plate of cheese.

 

Bilbo almost turned around and left. But he was a Hobbit, and Hobbits adapt. He had planted his roots in this mountain, and among the dwarves that came with it, and he would run away from a party, of all things! So he took a deep breath, and plunged in.

 

It was worse than it looked.

 

He was bombarded by blows from armor plated elbows and knees at every angle. The air was heavy with the smell of sweat. It was like all the worst bars he’d ever entered then swiftly exited put together, like the battle of five armies all over again. That similarity was enough to close his throat in terror, and he pushed forward with a new goal in mind.

 

He elbowed his way through the crowd, enduring it all with little grace until he reached a table stacked with full cups of ale. He snatched one off and took a long draw which was mostly foam. He coughed at the bitterness.

 

Staring down into the pint of dark, heavy ale, he felt as though the floor had fallen out from under him again, and if he moved even one inch, he would fall into the abyss below, deeper and deeper into the darkness and uncertainty. He was lost, and so alone. He felt the image of that ale swirling in that cup would be etched into his mind forever as the moment when he broke, the last sight he ever saw.

 

Jerking his head up he realized distantly that his heart was pounding. He felt cold and shaky, and he had to leave.

 

Running now, as quick as he was able through the crowd, he turned towards the doors of the Hall, and the gates of the mountain. He had thought that facing the party would be like facing the dragon, but he was wrong. Dragons could be slayed and evil conquered, but how could he conquer this feeling that he was just too small in such a great big world?

 

 _Smack!_ Bilbo collided with a wall— or what seemed like one at first. As his eyes traveled upwards he found it was Thorin, who was looking at him with a concerned expression.

 

“Bilbo,” he asked, leaning down to pull the Hobbit up by the hand. “Are you well?”

 

“I—I,” Bilbo panted. He glanced around the room and felt the panic building in his chest.

 

Thorin must’ve seen something of an answer in Bilbo’s eyes, for he picked the Hobbit up right off his feet and marched towards the exit, Bilbo tucked tightly against his side like an ornery child being escorted out by a frustrated parent.

 

Bilbo didn’t even have the energy to protest. Thorin’s touch had calmed something deep within him, gave him a anchor to hold through the squall. He felt an overwhelming fatigue roll over him and he wanted nothing more than to sleep for a whole day, and when he woke up he wouldn’t remember anything had happened.

 

“Master Baggins,” Thorin’s murmured. Bilbo realized that he was slumped against a cold stone wall in the dim hallway, far away from any of the noise from the party. The stone felt good against his clammy skin, so he turned in to it, moaning quietly.

 

“You are not well, let me fetch Oin and he will see you’re looked after.”

 

“No,” Bilbo said, his voice surprisingly steady and sure. It was enough to make Thorin pause. “I only need a moment to catch my breath. Please stay with me.”

 

Thorin nodded, taking a seat on the floor next to Bilbo.

 

Bilbo took a few deep breaths. He gave a hoarse chuckle and Thorin turned to look at him inquiringly. “Look at me, able to face Smaug the Terrible but not a dwarven party.”

 

Thorin frowned. “It was wrong of Bofur to not attend to your needs before leaving you alone in there.” He paused, and he looked at Bilbo. “You must think us to be quite a savage race after witnessing that.”

 

Bilbo frowned back. “While it’s true that was nothing like a Hobbit party, I don’t think anything could ruin my opinion of dwarves after listening to Dwalin’s performance of ‘A Soldier’s Song’ at that tavern in Laketown.” Thorin laughed, and Bilbo smiled at him.

 

“What are Hobbit parties like, then?” Thorin asked. And Bilbo was off. He spoke about the Party Tree, and the banquet tables stacked as high as his head, the wooden dance floor, and the music. He told him about the fireworks, and the gifts, the children at the maypole, and the headaches in the morning.

 

Through it all, Thorin listened. He hemmed and hawed at the right moments, and even laughed when Bilbo mentioned dropping an ice cube down the back of Lobila’s dress at his tenth birthday party.

 

Once Bilbo felt well enough to walk, Thorin walked him back down to the door of his room. As they parted ways, Bilbo realized he felt a little better. Telling Thorin about his old life helped him to remember it and even though it hurt more than a little, it was a sweet kind of pain. And if he cried himself to sleep that night, then they were a sweet sort of tears.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this work from my own struggles with moving over a hundred miles from my parents house for the first time to a city I had never seen before and knew no one. Not good. But... I get BY with a little HELP from my FRIENDS. *air guitars the beatles*


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